Hot Dish
by chef diamond heart
Summary: Chef Bella Swan has spent her life pursuing her dream and passion – owning her own restaurant. Which has left her love life in the soup. What love life? Enter suave, sexy, unapproachable headwaiter Edward Masen… A lemony frolic!AH AU
1. Chapter 1

All things Twilight are the sole property of the divine Stephenie Meyers. This fan fic is purely for entertainment with no other gain. No copyright infringement is intended. Think of it as an _homage_….

**Hot Dish**

**Chapter 1. The Appetizer**

"You know, Bella, if it's just a matter of _skin_, I could always fix you up with one of my friends."

"Thanks but no thanks, Mikey. I, ur, appreciate the concern, but I can't help thinking that I'm sort of _lacking_ in areas that your friends find important!"

"Hon, a lot of them are just like that dining room door over there, they swing both ways!"

"Okay, let's say I'm not interested in a guy who looks better in a dress than I do!"

"Picky, picky."

Mikey pretended to grumble at my objections to his attempts to expedite my love life (or lack thereof) but we shared a friendly laugh over the situation. So often I felt it was a matter of laugh or cry. And I did truly value his concern.

Our wrangling stopped at the sound that my ears were always tuned for, the voice that made my heart (and other parts as well) give a little leap.

"Order in, Chef, last table."

"Thank you, Edward, I'm on it." I took the ticket from his long, graceful fingers.

"They want to pre-order the Drambuie soufflé for dessert."

Why, why had I put that damned soufflé on the menu on inventory night? Just one more hold up at the end of a long day. Oh, well, looking at the ticket, just this one table would make it possible to pay Edward's wages till the end of the week. I could always count on Edward to up sell.

_Cold-smoked Trout Mousse and Avruga Caviar with Lavash_

_Coriander-scented Eggplant Bisque with Fried Besan Dumplings and Cilantro Cream._

**_... ... ..._**

_Pan-seared Sea Bass with Ruby Grapefruit Beurre Blanc on Wasabi Mashers_

_Grilled Tandoori- spiced Lamb Tenderloin with Caramelized Onion Flan and a Trio of Homemade Chutneys_

I sighed and forced my mind and hands to the task at hand. I plated up an order of the mousse as my sous chef, best friend and confidant, Mikey Newton, ladled a bowl of the soup.

Manys the time I had blessed, and cursed, whatever restaurant gods there were that had brought Edward Masen to the door of The Swan's Nest.

I'm Bella Swan, chef and proprietor.

Blessed, because this man with his musical voice, dreamy green eyes and tight ass, was the perfect head waiter, taking most of the dining room chores off my hands and leaving me free to pursue my passion: the food.

Cursed, because half a year of working closely with this paragon had me close to a frenzy of lust. Unrequited lust, at that, to all appearances.

To fulfill my ambition of being a chef, I had worked my ass off in a world hostile to women. I had refined my skills, arrived early, stayed late, and out guyed the guys when it came to raunchiness and trash talk.

However, popular TV programs aside, it is dispiritingly rare for a woman to become chef of a restaurant that she herself does not own - hence The Swan's Nest.

The first six months I had nearly killed myself with all the details necessary for even a tiny restaurant like mine to survive. Most nights had seen me almost too tired to drag myself up the stairs to my little apartment above the restaurant.

Between all the kitchen work and the front of the house operations, I had been at the point of giving up when fate brought Edward - tall, bronze-haired, feline-graceful Edward - to the rescue.

Previously, the combination of ambition and exhaustion had put my libido into a sort of hibernation. No more. Not only did Edward's efforts at the Nest give me more time to myself than I'd had in years, there was the E-Factor, the Edward-factor, itself.

I was quickly finding that all work and no play makes Bella a dull, _frustrated_, HORNY girl!

I spent a great deal of time covertly observing him, attracted, fascinated, maybe just a little…obsessed?

I had always felt rather apart from all the fuss about love and romance and sex, not to mention a bit smug at my imperviousness to what I saw as the monumental foolishness of such things.

Knowing the disdain with which women in general were treated in the culinary world I had early on made a strict 'no co-workers' rule. I had repelled all advances vehemently, earning myself the charming moniker "iron box", a not-so-pet name that had followed me around to different establishments.

Sure, I enjoyed a good sweaty roll in the hay as much as anybody. But most of my partners had been of the casual type, a shag friend rather than a real boyfriend or lover.

But I'd never had any man give me such a shot of adrenaline merely by walking into the room; a reaction that made my heart pound and my, well, certain areas, ache and burn with longing.

How could a man emanate such sex appeal, without seeming to mean it, or even be aware of it? He had this smell….

As a chef, my senses were highly refined: Edward's scent had nothing to do with colognes or body washes. That aroma of sunshine, lilacs and freshly baked sugar cookies was just _him_.

And I wanted to get closer to it. Much closer.

A sudden thought: could he smell _me_? Smell the state of almost constant arousal I felt when I was near him?

Growing up, I had been enthralled by cooking shows. On one of my favorites, re-runs of the original Great Chefs program, the Austrian-born narrator had waxed eloquent in her lavish descriptions of "de tsuckulent chusess" created by the products of the featured chefs. That phrase rolled around in my head whenever I spent more than a moment in Edward's presence. However, I didn't think these were the "chusess" referred to….

I often had the feeling that I was about to mimic the embarrassing over-erotic antics of my Siamese cat, Charlie, in estrus (Charlie is a girl): any second I would start yowling and rubbing the furniture.

We spent a lot of time together, often in very close proximity, going over schedules and expenses. We had an easy camaraderie going, typical for a small restaurant such as mine, but nothing else.

Reflecting on my previous philosophy of keeping my love life (_what_ love life?) separate from my work, I wondered about the ethics of starting something with an employee. Ack! But, hell, we were both adults and who was going to rat me out? And to whom?

It had occurred to me that one of my problems with furthering my pursuit was because I honestly liked him. Enough to care what he thought of me afterwards, if there ever was an afterwards.

It wasn't as though he was exactly stand-offish; quite the contrary, he was pleasant, sexy, well educated, sexy, with refined sense of humor, and, well, sexy.

He was charming, courtly even, and dismayingly detached. He was in every way the perfect business associate - I just wished I could get him interested in _my _business.

Best of all, he loved my food.

Just watching Edward's mouth as he sucked in a tender lobster ravioli – with just a touch of fresh chervil - in saffron cream was almost enough to send me into a rendition of that ancient Divinyls tune 'I Touch Myself', complete with interpretative dance.

Inwardly, I cursed his impeccable table manners as he fastidiously dabbed a napkin at a stray droplet of sauce from the corner of his perfect mouth. My tongue had been slipping from between my lips, acting on my longing to lap that errant drop away.

The mental image of feeding Edward delicate slivers of pan-seared foie gras from my fingers was one of my favorite nighttime fantasies.

I paused mid-task to glance through the service window and appreciate the sight of Edward, all unaware, going about his duties.

In my mind, I dismissed the tailored black pants and immaculate white shirt, leaving only the black bistro apron. As he bent to the lower shelf of the wine rack to make his selection (hmm, Silver Oak Cab -_go Edward_!), my mind was filled with a dazzling vision of a chiseled ass behind, a substantial teepee in front.

I sometimes wondered if he was as impervious as he seemed. Once, as I stirred a dark roux – a lengthy and muscle-cramping process – he had come up behind me and started massaging my neck and shoulders, wonderfully. Those graceful hands of his were both strong and knowledgeable. I gave a little shiver and tried to suppress a moan as I contemplated how else I would like his hands to touch me….

Edward broke into this inspiring reverie, saying, "Wow, you're really tight, Chef, you need a proper massage!" Just as I was hoping he'd offer, he fumbled out the business card of his MT, saying that she was the best before walking off. Aargh!

I wondered idly if there was an analogous female phrase for 'cock blocked'? Twat caught?

At every turn, my crush (who'm I kidding - my _letch_) for Edward seemed thwarted. I was weary of the strain of denying my impulses to grab him by his perfectly knotted tie, pulling him into a lip lock and dragging him upstairs to my bed for a few rounds of playing hide the cannoli.

Fantasies were all very well, but I found myself at an impasse: all my years of work had not prepared me to approach, let alone seduce

I often thought over the collection of vibrators in the night stand drawer upstairs, drearily wondering which would be my 'date' for the night. Hmmm, the _Superbe_, the _Liberté_, or the _Magnifique_? I had studied French, of course, to further my culinary refinement; who knew the knowledge would come in so handy when selecting personal sex toys?

Mikey, who knew all about my love lornity (well, lust lornity) made anxiously helpful (he _wished_) suggestions. His desire to be of service was not only for my sake: he was open about trying to preserve the harmony of our little culinary domain from my increasingly frustrated bitchiness.

He was sympathetic as I mourned, _sotto voce_, "I must have lost it! I used to have it – what it takes to turn a man on! My parts are going to atrophy!"

This was when he made his charming offer to fix me up with some of his friends. HUH!

Tonight, _tonight_, I vowed would be different.

Inventory night. Just me and the dining room manager and a pair of clipboards. Generally, Mikey, as sous chef, helped me with this tedious but necessary chore; by prior arrangement he was 'busy' tonight, forcing me to ask Edward's assistance.

A couple of hours, no distractions caused by customers or employees, surely, _surely_, I could manage to get my message across. If I didn't get tongue-tied; or blush so hard I lost consciousness; or he didn't politely decline; or run away in horror or -.

Oh, God, I had to stop that train of thought! Focus, Bella, focus! Positive thinking and all that! He would be _fondant _in my hands!

The soufflé was sent out to sounds of delight audible even back in the kitchen and we went on with the nightly chores of break down and cleaning. Part way through the routine, Mikey beckoned me back to the tiny room that served me as an office as well as liquor and linen storage (it had a sturdy lock on the door).

With a smile of complicity on his face, he thrust a small bag into my hands and gave me firm instructions to run upstairs, clean up and put on the contents of the bag before starting inventory.

The bag was deep blue with a pattern of tiny gold stars; the words _Chez_ _Midnight_ were elegantly printed beneath the ribbon handles. I peeked inside, wrapped in scented light blue tissue I could discern the gleam of satin, oooh, and was that lace?

"This isn't, like, _used_, is it?" I whispered dubiously. "A hand-me-down?"

"Girlfriend! Does this look like something I'd wear?" he rejoined indignantly. I had to agree that it didn't. Mikey's taste was a bit more… flamboyant.

I whispered my thanks to my friend as he pushed me out the door.

A short time later as I returned to the kitchen, I felt an additional gratitude for Mikey's thoughtfulness: the knowledge of my secret finery beneath the (clean and sweat-free) kitchen whites I had donned after a hasty shower gave me a sense of optimistic power. I could feel myself walking with a slinky saunter that was different from my usual brisk stride.

I stepped out into the bar. The front-end staff was there, finishing side work and totaling out tickets, all guffawing over a joke with the punch line, "Ah! Lucky Pierre – always in ze middle!" told by Rosalie the bartender. An oldie, but a goodie, just like Rose herself.

Edward had also changed clothes, khakis (baggy and faded, with paint spatters; he even looked hot in rags!) and a worn black t-shirt emblazoned with the legend "Eat the Worm", a promotion for Mescal. Mmmmm.

"Can I get you anything, Chef, before we start? A drink?" Offered my intended seductee, with a pleasant smile. I found myself staring, hoping to discern a note of desire in the simple sentence.

"Uh, espresso would be great. Work before pleasure." I gargled out, almost panicking now that the moment was close at hand. Shit! What kind of a prig did that make me sound like?

Giving a sickly smile, I indicated that I would be in the kitchen and made my exit, inwardly giving myself a stern lecture about loosening up.

For starters, I took off my chef jacket, leaving me in the new bra and a wife beater. Maybe if I bent wa-ay over as if to pick something up off the floor….

We were going over dry goods in the storeroom, when Mikey, dressed for an evening out, leaned in to say good night.

"Great dress, Mikey, is it new?" I asked approvingly.

As part of my agreement with my sous chef, he was permitted to use my apartment to freshen up and change before sashaying out to the tranny clubs on _that_ side of town.

"What? This old thing?" Mikey squealed coyly, twirling for inspection. I had to admit, he made a good-looking woman; he certainly looked more feminine than I did much of the time.

"It's open-mike night at the Hell Hole," he smirked, curtseying to our standing ovation before sweeping out into the night, glory-bent.

"Who is he tonight? That's a new one, right?" asked Edward with a chuckle. I had been glad to see from the start that Edward had little or no reaction to Mikey's… tendencies.

"Um, Lady Clitora Rubswell," I muttered with a blush. "Mikey says there's already too many Chers and Lizas – he prides himself on originality. Or should it be _her_self?"

Sometime later Edward and I were in the walk-in cooler; he was settled on the kitchen stool, clipboard in hand as we went down the list of product in use.

I reached up to the top shelf for a bucket of lemon curd. As I turned away from the shelf, Edward turned toward me on the stool, bringing his nose directly into my cleavage. My boobs were in his face.

_My boobs were in Edward Masen's face!_

We both froze. Edward moved first; without taking his face from between my breasts, he set down the clipboard and pen carefully on the shelf at his side. His hands slipped around behind me to my shoulder blades and he pressed my body into his face. I could feel his chest expand as he inhaled deeply and then his warm breath as he slowly exhaled.

Was it my imagination, or did he emit a little groan of…longing… desire… _triumph_?

My arms were still stretched over my head, bucket between my hands. Edward rose from the stool, drawing his nose slowly up my chest to my neck. He slid his hands up over my shoulders then glided them up my arms and relieved me of the sauce bucket, setting it back on the shelf.

Still standing pressed against me, he said softly, "You can put your arms down now, Chef." My response was to grip my hands in his hair (his_ hair!)_ and crash my mouth against his. Some how, without my willing it, my thigh ended up between his. I was pretty certain he didn't have a zucchini in his pocket.

I realized I was rubbing my split up and down his leg and making little high-pitched growly sounds as my tongue avidly explored the luscious mouth that consumed so many of my culinary delicacies. Astonished at my own forwardness, I pulled my face away from his to stare up at him, wide-eyed, my chest heaving.

"Good Lord, Chef, do you think I'm made of marble?" His hands were kneading my back and ass, while holding me tight against the straining hot muscle in his pants.

Some other woman's voice, the voice of some sultry-take-charge-hoyden of a woman, hissed commandingly, "Stop calling me 'Chef'! You can't fuck 'Chef'! Bella's the one you want."

Was this really me saying that? All my tongue-tied fumblings and commonplace utterings were a thing of the past; simply having Edward's hands on me seemed to give me a sexy confidence I not known before. Amazing, how I could jump from an embrace to the assumption that he wanted the same thing I did.

With a rumble in the back of his throat, he pressed his lips to the base of my neck and nibbled his way up to my ear where he murmured with a throaty chuckle, "Bella, Bellissima, my Beautiful One."

He bent over me and traced a line of fire down the nape of my neck with his lips. His hands, those large, graceful hands with their tapering fingers roamed my body in a way guaranteed to make me dizzy. One slid around between us to cup my breast, just holding it lightly as if to test the weight of it in his palm. His thumb flicked over the swelling nub and was joined by his forefinger, pinching and rolling, sending a shimmering wave of heat to my core.

The fingers of the other hand stole into the waistband of my baggy chef's pants, just running the tips under the elastic of my panties. Back and forth, skimming the very beginning of the swell of my ass, lightly caressing the fuck-me dimples, sliding tantalizingly into the separation of my cheeks.

He was driving me mad with these feather touches. And he knew it, somehow. Maybe it was the hoarse way I was panting.

Of their own accord, my hands pulled his t-shirt loose from where it was tucked into his khakis. I gave a strangled moan from the relief of finally running my hands over the smooth flesh of his back. Here and there a tiny irregularity, a mole or a scar, just made the tactile journey that much more rewarding.

"Do we really want to do this standing in the walk-in cooler?" Whispered my fantasy man. "It makes your nips stand up, but I'd like to think I can do that with out freon to help out."

GOD! Is there anything sexier than a man who can make jokes while he practically brings me off, fully clothed? Reluctantly, I pulled away, putting a minute distance between us. Even with an air gap, I could feel a tingle of the electric attraction he had for me.

Drawing a deep breath, I said faintly, "I'd invite you up to my place, but I don't think I can wait that long."

I stuck my fingers in a belt loop of his khakis, turned and pulled him behind me in to the warm, fragrant kitchen. I paused for a moment to flick off the overhead lights – just the bright red EXIT sign over the back door to provide a lurid mood lighting for our encounter.

Edward placed his hands on my hips and lightly lifted me, setting my on the maple block top of the prep table. In one motion he pulled the wife beater I was wearing over my head and tossed it aside.

Mentally, I blessed Mike and his forethought in making me go change. The shadow stripe ivory satin of the bra was seductive in the subtlest way, the delicate lace trim an invitation to explore…

Those gorgeous hands were doing that tit-weighing thing again, but I had to have more. I wove my fingers through that divine mop of bronze locks and pulled his head down, while thrusting up with my bosoms. No fool Edward. He pressed his mouth to me, rolling a hardened bud between his lips. He crushed my globes together, rubbing his face back and forth, giving each equal time.

"What's sauce for the goose is sauce for the gander." I gasped out. He raised his face questioningly at my obscure reference. "It means, shuck out of that shirt. You shouldn't be more dressed than me."

With a flash of that crooked grin that made my heart melt (well, not just my _heart_), he complied. I heard myself give a tiny moan as if in pain.

He was beautiful. His skin was fair and clung firmly to the sleek definition of his pecs and abs. A little scattering of bronze hairs over his chest made me go all shaky with the urge to touch. Suiting action to thought, I ran my hands up from his waist to his shoulders, taking my time, absorbing every muscular ripple through my fingertips.

The red-brown of his nipples beckoned to me, I had to taste them. I smirked to myself at his hiss as my tongue flicked, then my teeth nipped.

With deft haste, he unfastened the bra and slid it from my arms. I crushed myself against him, reveling in the feel of flesh on flesh, as our lips met and our tongues fought and mingled.

I could feel his hands peel down the elastic on my work pants. Bracing my palms against the tabletop, I raised up my ass so he could pull them off. His thumb traced a line along my slit through the fragile fabric of my satin panties then dipped under the leg band and anointed itself with my slipperiness. At his touch a felt a vibration start at my center that radiated out, making my knees tremble and my nipples grow even harder.

Edward raised that hand, with its glistening thumb, passing it under his nose as if savoring the bouquet of a fine wine. Then he slid it into his mouth, closing his eyes the same rapt way he did when I tested a new dish on him.

Down came the panties and Edward sank to his knees between my legs. Placing a hand on either side of my quim, he smoothed my thighs wider apart so that I was completely exposed before him. He sat back on his heels for a moment and smiled his appreciation at the view, then he glanced up to my eyes and ran the tip of his tongue voluptuously over his lips in anticipation.

He drew a line from my knee with his tongue tip all the way to my now quivering snatch. Pressing his face into my most secret place he gave a long, wide-tongue lick from bottom to top, from taint to clit, slowly, then again. For all the world as if he were licking a spoonful of his favorite gelato.

My hips gave an involuntary shimmy: my body was crying out to him for orgasm, for release from this torment he was lavishing on me. My urgency seemed to inflame him for the pace of his attentions picked up. His fingers sought my opening while the other hand pulled back on my mound, completely baring my knot of pleasure to his questing mouth.

I threw my head back in abandon, stretching my arms wide to grip the upright supports of the pot rack that hung above us. My last coherent thought as he laid waste to my swollen pussy was, "Thank God the health inspector doesn't work nights!"

The pots and pans clanged together gently as I writhed under his increasingly frenzied exertions, the sound growing louder as I gasped and cried out in ecstasy, "Oh, holy shi-i-it, Edward! I need you to fuck me, fuck me now!" I screeched as my body crashed again and again over to the other side of my climax.

My heart was pounding and my breath still ragged as Edward abruptly stood, his eyes wild and his face gleaming from my juice. His khakis were gone in a trice and he stood before me, the muscular V of his torso ending at an upstanding edifice, a sculptured ionic column carved of rose granite. Except granite doesn't twitch and quiver.

The cock of a conqueror, ready to breech my walls.

He loomed over me; from deep in his throat came words that inflamed me, "I'm going to fuck you now, Bella, and you're going to love it." I nodded feverishly as he pressed the tip of his pulsating hard-on to my entrance-.

"Here's your coffee, Chef." Edward's friendly-but-cool voice awoke me from my reverie. The sound of the pots and pans striking together was from the Juan the dish man hanging the last of the sauté pans, trying to work around me as I lolled against the table.

Holy fucking crap, I thought, what a fantasy! How much did anyone see? My knees were still quaking from the force of the sensations that had gripped me only moments before. I hoped Edward would think that the flush I could feel staining my face was from the kitchen heat…of course he would, he couldn't know - could he?

It seemed to me that his gaze was knowing as I shakily took the demitasse from his hand and downed the scalding liquid like a shot.

"Y'know," I heard myself say, "Maybe a drink would hit the spot after all. A strong one."


	2. Chapter 2

Hot Dish

**Chapter 2. The Mid Course**

EPOV

"Uh, espresso would be great. Work before pleasure." Chef Bella blushed and gave me a guilty look before scurrying off to the kitchen.

Why _guilty_? I wondered.

Her reaction was a little…deflating. As mundane as inventory night was, the thought of a few hours alone with Bella gave the chore a certain glamour. I had high hopes for this evening.

Hopes that now seemed unfounded. Hadn't she just said, in as many words, that this evening was going to be all work? But wait a minute; she'd said something about pleasure, too. Right?

"Oh, come off it, Masen!" I told myself sternly, "Just because you walk around with a limp from your perpetual wood for this woman, doesn't mean she feels the same!"

I tried to keep my expression neutral in front of the staff as I turned to the Escomat® machine. I had done my best to conceal my attraction to Bella (_my boss_, gack!), but obviously I wasn't as much of an actor as I could wish: it seemed that _everyone_ employed at The Swan's Nest knew of my hopeless crush.

Everyone but the object, that was.

And yet, I could have sworn there was a glow of… well, _something_ in her eyes when I'd catch her looking my way at times. An expression in those gorgeous browns that told me there was more going on in her head than the strictly business-like contacts we had.

It was probably just as well that she couldn't read minds: if she'd known what was going on in _my_ head she'd take after me with the big cleaver. Or else drop trou and jump me.

Yeah, right. There went Little Eddie, doing the thinking again! Amazing imagination. He kept grumbling that he was tired of his dates with Miss Rosie Palm and her five sisters. His preferences were embarrassingly evident.

Thank the-powers-that-be for bistro aprons, though many times I could have used one of those lead-lined jobs they put on you at the dentist: Little E usually did an Olympic quality pole vault whenever Chef entered the room.

Just how long can a guy live with blue balls? I seemed destined to find out.

Some months previously I had moved from Chicago to Seattle, with the intention of putting distance between an ex-girlfriend and me. I wasn't exactly crushed, things hadn't been good between us for a long time, but a change of location and a fresh start were welcome.

In the short while that I'd been in the North West I had hooked up a few times - plenty of hot ladies in the area - but, to be honest, the ol' libido had kind of stretched and yawned at the thought of a repeat performance with any of them. Not to disparage, there just wasn't any, well, magic happening.

I'd sort of knocked around for a couple of months, enjoying the newness and getting my bearings until economic reality had reared it's ugly head.

Selling one of my melodies gave me the right to call myself a composer, but the royalties weren't exactly pouring in. (One of the many problems with the ex.) Like so many people with creative ambitions I supported myself as a Food Service Professional. It had a lot of advantages, not the least of which were flexible hours, leaving me a decent amount of time to spend at the piano.

Acquaintance with other musicians, novelists, artists and actors in similar circumstances was another perk. The co-workers were always interesting. They made good connections, too: a friend of a friend of my agent had suggested The Swan's Nest for potential employment.

Bella Swan was considered one of the next generation of rising star chefs. One look around her little establishment and I was immediately impressed at the attention to detail. I knew the business well enough to tell that money had been tight for the start up, but I could also see that the funds had been allocated properly. The dining chairs were 'stylishly' mismatched but the wineglasses were top quality, thin and highly polished.

I hoped I didn't gape like too much of a jackass when the chef-owner came out to interview me. I had been expecting a much more formidable, diesel-y type of female. She was just a slip of a girl! Slim, fair-skinned with an appealing heart-shaped face and a kissable mouth with a full lower lip. And a perfect, teardrop-shaped –.

"Good God, Masen! Your mother _tried_ to raise you to be a gentleman! You've barely met the woman and you're already mentally undressing her! Show some respect!" I scolded myself. The undressing in my mind had revealed nicely rounded -.

I yanked my filthy mind back to reality with a gulp; the Chef was probably thinking that I was a hopeless lecher.

Closer inspection (down, Eddie!) showed that she was a bit older than I had first thought, judging by the tired lines around her eyes and mouth. However, as she warmed to the topic of her dream restaurant and showed me around her little queendom, I found myself revising my impression of her age downward again: it was plain and simple weariness that caused those little lines in her face.

The restaurant business is a cannibalistic _bitch_: it will devour you mentally and physically. I was awed at what this young woman had been able to accomplish on her own - I love strong, resourceful women - but it was obvious that she needed help. I felt sure that I could… rise to the occasion.

I brutally forced myself to pay attention to the interview.

Now, I wasn't the sort to believe in love at first sight - that sounded like a teen romance novel - but there was something about Bella Swan…. Her _smell_, maybe?

Whatever it was had reached out and grabbed me by the hojos and it wasn't letting go.

The confiding way that Bella looked up at me as she offered me the position of headwaiter and dining room manager sent a charge straight to my loins. I almost flinched in my effort to control the urge to pull her into my arms. I wanted to kiss away the little worried line between her brows, brush my lips over her eyelids, nibble at her earlobe and work that little pulse point at the corner of her jaw…

Fuck. I was hard. The libido was definitely back on duty.

In spite of myself, it seemed, I walked away an employed man. An employed man with an apparently never-ending erection for the boss. What a deal! Here I was, getting paid to work closely with a woman who aroused me like no one else ever had.

And there the matter stayed.

It amazed me at times that I managed to get any work done at all as fantasies of Chef Bella haunted me day and night.

Fantasies as simple as Bella preparing a special meal just for me, in an apron and nothing else. Hardly original, but the enticing way her boobs jiggled as she energetically whipped a Sauce Maltaise turned such a trite imagining into soft core porn.

Or a late night meeting in her tiny, crowded office that ended with me in the desk chair, a naked Bella straddled across my body, riding me like a jockey. The chair creaked, Bella squeaked, I groaned.

The ultimate: Chef stretched out on the prep table as I decorated her nude body with sauces from the dessert cooler. Fingerprint swirls of crème anglaise, ziggles of caramel and chocolate sauce from squeezie bottles, Pollock-like splashes of raspberry coulis. Her nips stood up in my masterpiece like pretty pink cherries for garnish.

Naturally, this last invention involved a lot of tasting and licking, from both of us: much of my artwork would be transferred to my body as I drove Little Eddie home into her sweet, warm….

I was spending a lot of time in the shower these days. Shaking hands with the man, so to speak.

Being so flummoxed by a woman was an experience I hadn't had for years, yet a glance and a smile was all it took to turn me into a stammering adolescent, and one with a raging rod-on at that. The harder I tried to impress her the more I made an ass of myself. Often I took refuge in a certain formality of manner, as if I were addressing a table of VIP customers; it was either that or babbling like an idiot.

This I attributed this to fluctuations in blood-flow to the brain. Could long-term circulation or cognition problems result from these near-constant interruptions in oxygen supply?

Watching her work was a turn-on of its own. Experts are always fascinating, but what intrigued me most were Bella's hands: they were small, but very strong and deft in their never-ending labors. The thought of other tasks those small strong hands could engage in was enough to make me forget whatever errand had brought me to the kitchen in the first place.

I frequently pondered the notion of wearing a cup to work; preferably one made of titanium.

Often it seemed as if she was making love to me through the medium of her food, only to turn around and fuck with my mind by her distant professionalism.

The impassioned glow of her face when she presented a new dish was damn near irresistible, as was the adorable way she bit that deliciously full lower lip as she awaited my response.

She would set the plate in front of me with an air of anticipation… and challenge.

It became a matter of pride to search my taste memory for the perfect beverage to accompany her creations.

_Grilled Portobello stuffed with Wild Boar Boudin, drizzled with a Port reduction Demi-glace, topped with Fried Leek Threads_

I took a bite, and involuntarily closed my eyes in an extremity of pleasure. The mildly gamey-sweet flavor of the boar, the earthiness of the mushroom, the delicate oniony crunch of the leeks and the intensity of the sparingly applied sauce. Surely, such sensuality couldn't be limited to her cooking. The instincts that could combine such a wealth of taste and textures had to have other applications.

Eyes still closed, I murmured, "How about, um, an Argentine Malbec? The Bodega de Silva '06?"

The little "Ahhh!" of satisfaction she gave was a reward in itself. A reward that sent my mind along a familiar route…. With a guilty start, I glanced down at my lap; was it my imagination, or was my table napkin moving?

Even my time at the piano, doing my real work, was disrupted, tormented, inspired by visions of Bella – at the stove; sipping a glass of wine; in my bed, red-brown hair tumbled over the sheets as she looked up at me, her eyes hazed with desire…. Yes, _tormented_ was a good word.

Admittedly though, the composition that had flowed from my fingers as I let my mind wander over the way the little hairs grew on the back of her delicate neck –and the way I would like to nibble that neck - was one of my best. I might even be able to work it into something saleable. Not that I had any motivation for moving on from The Swan's Nest.

Sometimes I found myself wishing that Costco carried Astroglide in, say, a half-gallon pump dispenser.

So – inventory night. It wasn't much, but I was getting so desperate with thwarted lust that I was determined that tonight, one way or another, _something_ would happen.

The rest of the staff finished up their side jobs, donned coats and departed. Rosalie the bartender gave me a conspiratorial smile as she left, whispering, "I put a pitcher of my special Knock-You-Naked margaritas here in the cooler. Use them wisely."

How thoughtful.

The restaurant was deserted now, with only the background sounds of the numerous pieces of equipment. I ground the espresso beans, my mind wandering, again, to thoughts of the best approach to take with Chef….

I jumped at the soft voice in my ear. Bella's voice. "You don't know how long I've waited for this."

Slender arms wrapped around me from behind. Tentatively at first, then with increasing confidence, the small, strong hands roamed up my chest, caressing and exploring. Her head rested against my back as she gave a tiny whimpering sigh of… _longing_?

"I don't know why I've never told you how attracted I am to you," she said with a rueful little chuckle. "I just could never find the words, somehow, or the right time – so I think I better show you."

The sensation of her warm breath through my t-shirt sent a chill up my spine; the soft touch of her lips against the thin fabric almost stopped my heart.

Her fingers lightly raked down my chest then insinuated themselves into my baggy khakis – pants I had particularly chosen for their loose fit, just in case any _issues_ came up. But there wasn't any hiding my response to Bella's touch as slowly and tantalizingly she smoothed her palms down my thighs.

For the return trip, she curved her fingers and gently dragged her nails over my flesh, causing every hair on my body to stand up as if electrified. Those hands! Subtle, knowledgeable, searching; almost, but not quite, touching where my body screamed for her attention.

Little Eddie stood up like the Space Needle.

A little groan of protest erupted from me as she removed her hands from their increasingly snug enclosure. She circled around to face me; she stood on tiptoe as one arm went around my neck. It seemed like I would drown in the brown of her eyes as she pulled my head down to kiss her.

At last I could explore that lusciously full lower lip that had tempted me since the first time I met her. I gave a gasp like a starving man who is suddenly filled as I sucked that lip gently into my mouth and felt her tongue seeking mine.

It didn't stop with a kiss. Her free hand found one of mine and placed it on her breast, squeezing as if to encourage me. Like I needed encouragement! It filled my hand perfectly, the nipple hard and pert under my thumb.

The woman of my dreams was kissing me, sighing low in her throat, grinding her hips against my swollen, throbbing junk. Life doesn't get much better.

But get better it did.

That little hand slid back into my khakis, seeking and caressing, but not recognizing any boundaries this time: she had a thorough grasp of matters. We both moaned simultaneously into each other's mouths as she gripped the third party to our encounter.

The pressure of her fingers and palm wrapped around my cock was firm, but not too tight, as they slid along my rock hard heat. Her thumb moved round and around the head, then made little circles -oh, _yeah _- right on the sweet spot.

"Edward," she whispered, "I've wanted you so much, ever since that day you interviewed – couldn't you tell?"

The arm that was around my neck released me, to snake down my chest to the button of my pants. A couple of deft moves and the khakis, and boxers, were being shoved down my legs. Bella (_dear God!_) dropped lightly to her knees.

My dick practically leaped as she held it to her cheek and rolled it with a light touch of her palm. There was a mischievous smirk on her lips, which parted lusciously as, eyes closed, her lovely tongue made a long, slow, zigzagging lap up the length of my shaft from balls to tip.

How could this be happening? This was like something from my morning shower fantasies. I'd never even tried to get to first base with Bella, and here she was, greeting Little Eddie like a long lost friend, first with a handshake, then with a much-more-than-friendly kiss.

This wasn't at all the way I had planned things, but I couldn't bring myself to fight it.

"Mmmphalamph," issued eloquently from my mouth. Once again this woman had rendered me speechless. I wanted to express my pleasure – damn, I needed another, _stronger_, word for pleasure - at her actions. I wanted to tell her of my desire for her, how her beauty and very being turned me on.

How I wanted to fuck her blind.

I leaned my head back, panting hoarsely. Through slitted eyes I looked down at Bella's face, noting the flush on her fair skin and the look of focused attention she wore.

Her lips, deeply pink from their exertions, were working my cock like a virtuoso flautist as her fingers ran arpeggio up and down my length. She hummed her own enjoyment; the vibration was almost my undoing.

She sucked Little E into her mouth, tongue swirling in the ultimate Hoover action. My fingers clutched her hair as the muscles in my groin tightened and my legs trembled and stiffened.

"Ah, guh, Bella, I going to – going to… unh!"

I was about to blow like Mount Saint Helens.

PPhhsssstt!

The espresso machine spit scalding water and coffee grounds over my fingers; in my abstraction I must not have locked the cams on the filter holder properly. My fantasy, and my erection, evaporated like the steam from the milk frothing attachment. Quickly, I cleaned up the mess and started over.

How was I going to face Bella with the memory of _that_ whirling around in my

fevered mind?

Demitasse in hand, I entered the kitchen. Chef was half reclining over the big prep table, braced on her hands, head back, eyes closed. Her expression was a portrait of rapt concentration.

I swallowed hard. It was the face that I hoped to see some day from the vantage point of her crotch.

What the fuck was the matter with me? Why didn't I tell her that I wanted her? Take her in my arms and coax that look of rapture with my hands and mouth. Watch the rapture turn to ecstasy, hear her moan my name, feel her little hands clawing my back as she begged for more… My ever-ready cock gave a jump to let me know its willingness for such an endeavor.

As usual, however, I was as tongue-tied as some fucktarded high school kid. "Here's your coffee, Chef."

Bella's eyes blinked open, she stared at me as if surprised to see me here. Obviously her thoughts had been a million miles away. Why was she blushing?

She took the tiny cup from my hand and tossed back the steaming contents like a shot.

"Y'know," she said, a little hoarsely, "maybe a drink would hit the spot after all. A strong one."

I turned on my heel and nearly ran back to the bar. Would she think it odd if I served a margarita in, say, a salt-rimmed wine bucket? Not that I considered, or approved of, seducing a drunken woman, where was the satisfaction in that? But a drink, or three, might make the approach easier…for me as well for as my intended seductee.

Carrying one of Rosalie's special ritas in either hand (I had finally settled on using 20 ounce mixer glasses) I returned to the kitchen.

My mouth went dry. Bella had removed her chef's jacket. The thin cotton of her undershirt clung deliciously to her slim yet rounded-in-the-right-places body.

The pencil fell from her hand; she bent over to pick it up.

Oh, _yeah_! Over the top edge of the wife beater she wore, I could see the weight of her boobs filling the cups of her bra, and the delectable parting between them. I almost whimpered at the thought of burying my face between those luscious orbs. Bbbrrrr!

Was it my imagination, or was her face just a little _too_ innocent as she straightened up?

Smiling her thanks for the rita, Bella said, coolly, "Shall we get started?"

Rationally, I knew that nothing had really passed between us, but it was… disconcerting, to say the least, to be treated in such an off-hand manner. After the surprise and gratification of – something that _HAD NOT EVEN FUCKING HAPPENED,_ you pathetic, testicle-twisted wanker!

I had to pull myself together! I was almost sickened by my own wanting and frustration; I retreated, again, into formal professionalism.

The next thirty minutes passed in serene and courteous uneventfulness, broken only by a brief appearance from Mikey, dressed to impress. S/he gave me a meaningful glare before making a sweeping exit.

He did look pretty hot.

Shit. Was I pitiful or what?

At length, we moved into the walk-in cooler. I made notations on the clipboard as Bella called out amounts of product in use.

"Mmm, lemon curd, I love this stuff," she remarked. "Uh, two quarts – minus a taste or two."

Grinning impishly, the object of my desire dipped a finger into the soft yellow mass and scooped up a glob of the confection. Her eyes closed as the finger went into her mouth.

I licked my own lips in lustful agony.

"Care for some?" Bella asked brightly, holding out the bucket to me. I wished with all my…_heart_ that she would offer me the same 'spoon' she had used.

I blinked.

There seemed to be a sudden shift in reality. My breath froze in my lungs and I became aware of a buzzing sound in my head. I took a dab of the lemon curd on my index finger – and seemingly without volition raised my hand to Bella's face, gently smearing it over her mouth.

Do. Not. Pass. Out. I ordered myself sternly as I bent my head and licked the tart sweetness from her lips. Lips that parted willingly under mine.

Not just willingly - eagerly, _passionately_. Our mouths didn't separate by so much as a micron as I took the bucket from her hands and blindly set it aside; it could have fallen to the floor for all the care I took.

She wove the fingers of one hand into my hair as our mouths frantically explored one another. The other hand gathered a fistful of my t-shirt, pulling me tight against her.

My newest erection might have been the first ever as her slender thigh slid between mine. I couldn't hold back a deep-seated groan of mingled relief and delight, as I filled my hands with that luscious teardrop-shaped ass and drew her hips closer still.

Abruptly, Bella disengaged and pulled back, panting slightly and looking anxiously at me.

Anxiously?

"Th-this isn't just a, um, a fantasy, or a dream or something, is it? It's really happening?" She breathlessly waited my response.

There was only one answer to a question like that.

Anyway, I needed to make certain for myself.


End file.
